


North

by emmsi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Canon Divergence - The Battle of the Blackwater, F/M, One Shot, POV Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-07
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-08 03:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15922151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmsi/pseuds/emmsi
Summary: Sansa presents as alpha before the Battle of Blackwater. Aka ABO-verse Sansan without the smut…





	North

_Give your Florian a little kiss now. A kiss for luck._

She’d dodged Dontos’s wet, groping lips, but his smell had lingered all the same. Wine, sickly sweet, unwashed clothes and a hint of Littlefinger’s minty breath. She’d never noticed it before, but tonight, it was almost an assault, enough to make her climb, climb, climb, to the top of Maegor's Holdfast, up where the air was smoke and fire and easier to breathe.

Smoke and fire and… something else.

It was the smell of the sun-brushed sheets on a cold, crisp day. It was the smell of blade against whetstone in the godswood, where Father used to sit, Ice in hand. It was the smell of the earth as Bran and Rickon rolled away the snow to build their snow knights.

A stab went through her, and she clutched at her belly, sobbing, both from the things she’d lost and the relief of what she’d found. Here, in King’s Landing, she’d found a piece of Winterfell.

Strong fingers grabbed her arm and steadied her.

Home. A smell of home.

She didn’t have to look up to know who it was.

He was trying to scare her with his words again, but it was getting harder and harder to focus on those words. She felt light-headed, almost feverish, and there was an ache in her belly, all the way up to her heart. _Knight. Night. Night._

That night Sansa dreamed of the riot again. The mob surged around her, shrieking. She shouted for her brothers, for gallant Ser Loras, for the heroes from the songs she loved, but no one came. She saw the bright glimmer of steel, and the rasp of his voice rang in her head.

‘Enough.’ It was her voice this time, speaking the word. _Enough._

Perhaps she’d breathed in a little of the Hound’s ferocity. Her voice sounded loud, commanding, sure, even though her heart was trembling and filled with tears.

One by one, the men and women knelt. _Give your order_ , they said. _Give your order, and we shall follow. What will you have us do? Fight? Kill? Die?_

No, no, no. No more fighting. No more killing. No more dying.

She just wanted to ease the burning, ease the ache. She just wanted to hold onto the things that mattered, the things she still had, and let them make her whole again. His hands were rough but warm. She wanted, needed to find him. Let him melt into her, a salve for her wounds.

When she woke, it was to the sight of blood on her sheets, a dark crimson seal of her womanhood. _No, please. Please, no._

She ran a finger across both wrists. There was no silvery line, cuffing her to the fate of an omega. She almost wanted to laugh, thinking of the queen’s cold green eyes and Joff’s fat wormy lips, both twisting in disappointment to see that she hadn’t spontaneously presented as an omega, like they’d wanted, to give Joff a stronger claim to kingship in a world with no more alphas.

At least she could deny them that.

But they’d marry her to Joff all the same. Make her lay with him.

No. He was not her mate. She didn’t want him. She wouldn’t have him.

She prowled the room for a knife and her bedside lamp. _Burn it. Burn it all._ No one could make her lie with him. No one.

The flames danced, eating up the blood she’d offered. _King’s blood, queen’s blood, blood on a maiden’s thigh._ A strange calm took hold of her. She drew herself to her full height, naked, bloodied, but no longer afraid.

There was blood, too, on the mattress, but it no longer mattered, for she’d caught sight of a face that was her own, but not her own in the silvered looking glass.

There, beneath the tangle of wild, auburn hair that looked more wildling than lady, above those Tully blue eyes that held no trace of the dove or mouse that the queen liked to call her, but was all wolf, was an unmistakeable silvery claw mark of an alpha.

They’d never wed her to Joff now. Not like this. Not now that she was a threat.

The door burst open and she heard her maid gasp.

_Give your order._

‘ ** _Bring me water_** ,’ she said. ‘Please. **_Clean up the mess, and don’t tell._** ’

The maid bobbed her head meekly and obeyed. There’d be others omegas like her, Sansa knew, waiting for an alpha to present, waiting for a chance to serve. How many? Enough to help her escape this cruel, golden cage?

She reached for the powder and dusted it over the mark between her brows. Time. There was still time. She’d waited long enough. She could wait a little longer.

So she let the maid clean her, give her a cloth to wear between her legs, and brush out her hair. Other maids came too, omegas all, as if answering her call, to cut up her mattress and replace it with one pure and unstained. She pulled on a clean, green wool shift and chose to obey the queen’s summons.

Outside, the battle had begun. Inside, Sansa sat beside the queen in the ballroom that stank of fear and Arbor Gold. The musicians played. Jugglers juggled. She could have command over half of them, she counted. And poor Lord Gyles, coughing more than he was eating. Lollys Stokeworth too, eating too fast, only to retch all over herself and her sister. They’d take out the queen and pale-eyed Ser Ilyn Payne if she asked them to, she knew, or die in the attempt.

‘The only way to keep your people loyal is to make certain they fear you more than they do the enemy,’ the queen was saying.

‘I will remember, Your Grace,’ said Sansa.

Gently, she reached out her mind towards the weeping women and the trembling fools, trying to smooth away their fears, trying to share a little of the calm that she’d been trying to carve out for herself.

 _Be brave_. She told herself as much as them. _Be strong._

But even as the young bride of one of Ser Lancel’s knights ceased her weeping, a deep desperation tightened around her heart. She could almost feel the green flames of the wildfire licking at her feet, and over that, someone’s ragged breathing cried out to a primal part of her. _Threat. Threat. Threat!_

She blinked. She was still in the queen’s ballroom, where Osney Kettleblack was whispering to the queen, ‘Some archers got ashore, but the Hound's cut them to pieces, Y'Grace.’

The fire, fire, _fire._

Screaming men and screaming horses. Steel, and smoke. Blood, and fire, fire, _fire_.

Sansa didn’t remember how she had risen to her feet. The queen looked at her as if she’d gone mad, and perhaps she had, for she should have waited, like she’d planned to, for a time with no Kettleblacks to cut them down, with no Ser Ilyn to stop her.

But he needed her, _now_. She could feel it in her bones; she knew it as clearly as she knew she was a Stark.

One by one, she felt the omegas still, waiting for her command. She could see the glint of Ice in Ser Ilyn’s hands. _Bring it to me,_ she wanted to say. _It isn’t his to wield._ But no sword was worth the blood that might be shed to bring it to her.

She lowered her head.

‘I just need to make water, Your Grace,’ she said.

A serving girl slipped out with her, to keep watch, the queen must have thought, but Sansa didn’t need to see the silvery lines poking out from the sleeves of the girl’s dress to know whose side she was on.

‘Can you bring me a cloak?’ said Sansa. ‘I must be going.’

‘Out _there?_ ’ said the serving girl.

‘I must,’ she said. She’d lost Lady, once; she could not survive losing her Hound. She could only pray that there’d be enough omegas among the soldiers to protect her against the others.

The serving girl pattered away, to return with a thick woollen cloak and a parcel stuffed with cheeses and dried meat. ‘Take care, m’lady.’

Sansa nodded, pulled the hood up, and followed the invisible pull towards the place where she belonged.

‘ ** _Let me through_** ,’ she ordered, not daring to look back and see how many had heard, how many were ready to obey. ‘ ** _Protect me_** _. **Help me.**_ ’

She heard them fall into step about her. A motley flaming hearts and stag and lions. Her own army. They passed Ser Lancel, whose surcoat was soaked with blood, past soldiers and sellswords, bleeding, dead, burnt.

He was close, she knew; she could taste his fear above the burnt, ashen air, she could feel the sting of a wound above his brow. How dare they hurt him. How _dare_ they. He was _hers, hers, hers,_ and…

Oh. She saw him then. His face had grown as pale as the cloak around his shoulders, and just as stained with blood. There was a flagon in his hand, and the stink of sweat and sour wine and stale vomit almost threatened to drown out the smell that was truly _him_. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he was safe and _here_.

She saw the whites around his eyes grow wider at the sight of her. No powder could hide the mark upon her brows now. She could feel it glow, feel it call to him.

He let her pull him close; let her bring him to her side, where he belonged. The sky was aswirl with fire, but all she could see was how the burnt corner of his mouth twitched and twitched again, how the pulse on his neck fluttered and _beckoned_ for her to mark him. _Mine, mine, mine_.

She smoothed the matted hair away from his brows. She felt him shiver, and fought the instinct to do more than cup his cheek with her fingers. _Take him. Claim him. Mine, mine, mine_.

‘Shall we go?’ she said. ‘Away from here. Away from the fires.’ North. Somewhere. Anywhere. She’d build them a home, away from it all. ‘I could keep you safe. No one would hurt you again.’

It would be so simple, to command him, to make him go with her. But it was the Lannisters who’d wanted him as a dog. She snaked her arms around his neck and tucked her head under his chin, her rightful spot.

‘Please,’ she said. Her voice sounded small and thin and tremulous. She didn’t think she could bear it if he said no.  ‘ _Please…_ ’

She felt his calloused fingers on her own cheek, and leaned into his touch.

‘North,’ he rasped.

**Author's Note:**

> A lot of the lines and phrases are from book canon… Wet, groping lips, strong fingers etc. I don’t even know how to label it… I don’t own anything anyway…
> 
> So yeah… Happy Friday! This is kind of a mess, and is it even ABO without the rutting? It’s basically an ABO-verse I was exploring a while ago for my main multi-chapter Sansan fic, but kind of lost interest and went with Harrenhal instead… I’ve tried to tidy it up into a one-shot, though it’s still kind of a mess. Would love to see more ABO-verse Sansan though! <3


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